Quietly
by pgrabia
Summary: Written for Sick!Wilsonfest Rnd. 6 on LJ. Prompt 30: Wilson goes to visit House at his apartment unannounced only to find that there's an intruder there who turns on Wilson, e.g.  beating/stabbing. H/Cu references; H/W pre-slash  UST . Read Warning inside


**Title:** **Quietly**  
**Author:** pgrabia  
**Prompt:** #30 (general)—Wilson goes to visit House at his apartment unannounced only to find that there's an intruder there who turns on Wilson, e.g.) beating/stabbing.  
**Pairing:** House/Wilson pre-slash.  
**Category:** Sick!Wilson, Drama.  
**Rating/Warnings:** NC-17/M This story contains gory violence, major character death, murder, suicide, coarse language. Reader discretion is strongly advised.  
**Words:** ~3600  
**Summary:** Wilson is attacked when he pays a surprise visit on House  
**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**~0~**

Rust-brown—that was the color of it as it flaked off of his soft, well-manicured hands. Tiny bits of it fluttered to the hardwood floor, disappearing in the grain. He didn't have to worry about it all flaking off, not that it would; there was plenty more where that came from. If fact, there were two distinct bloody trails that led from the kitchen into a bedroom covered in it. Fourteen or so pints went a long way in such tiny quarters. It smelled metallic, a familiar smell distinct from any other he'd ever encountered. A sickening smell. He'd smelled a lot of it in his life but he'd never grown used to it.

After today, he knew he would never be able to get the scent out of his nose again. That was alright; the mental pictures had been burned permanently into his retinas and never would he be able to see the world the same way again either.

Two feet in shiny black dress shoes appeared in front of him as he flicked another flake off of his hand. It landed feather-softly onto the surface of one of the said boots.

"Dr. Wilson?" a voice said softly from above him. Slowly he lifted his head to look at the source of the address. A tall, slender, middle-aged man in a black suit and grey tie stood before him. He had short, cropped hair, pale skin and extremely serious expression. Next to and a little behind him was a tall woman wearing a tasteful brown pant suit, ivory-colored blouse and expensive brown leather shoes with a two inch heel. Her hair was long, silky-straight and raven-colored. She was attractive but also grave-expressioned.

"Yes?" he said softly, not recognizing the sound of his own voice. It was hoarse. Talking hurt. His swollen jaw resisted movement of any kind punishingly. "I already told the first officers to arrive everything I know."

"And we appreciate that," the man said with a nod, "but we have a few more questions. I'm Detective Brooks and this is my partner Detective Zane."

His proffered hand was ignored and then withdrawn. The detectives sat down on the black leather sofa. Zane pulled a notebook out of the hidden pocket inside her blazer, exposing the pancake holder and Glock at the same time; coincidence or reminder?

"Do we have to do this right now?" Wilson asked. A headache throbbed behind his eyes.

"The sooner we have the information we need, the sooner we can catch him," Brooks explained patiently. Obviously the man was used to talking to individuals in varying states of shock.

Why not? Re-telling the horror couldn't do any more damage than had been already done.

"What do you want to know?"

Zane looked to her notebook. "You told Officer Regan that you arrived to find the front door unlocked. Is it commonly left unlocked?"

A well-manicured finger scratched at a spot on the chair's armrest. It turned out to be pizza sauce, not blood.

"No," was the answer spoken through twisted lips. "House usually kept the deadbolt locked, even when he was home."

"Paranoid?" Zane asked, raising an over-tweezed eyebrow.

"He understood human nature far too well," Wilson told her, his voice holding the edge of cold, honed steel. "It's not paranoia if it's true."

She wisely said nothing to that.

"Why were you at his apartment this evening?" the male detective asked.

Why, indeed? It had been weeks since his best friend had expelled him from the same apartment when the oncologist had come needed to be consoled for his loss. They had barely talked after that, not that he hadn't tried. House had been too busy with case after case handed to him by his boss, both at work and at home. They had been lame cases, the type that used to be tossed into the trash. Like many other things, House's attitude concerning what he would spend his time on had radically changed since spring. Wilson had told House what he thought his friend needed to know and stopped giving out relationship advice, thus he had been ruled no longer useful and subsequently ignored.

"We hadn't talked in a while," he replied, his eyes drawn to the bloody footprints, tracks as police and forensics walked back and forth from door to bedroom. _Sloppy work,_ the doctor mused. "I missed him. I came over to try to reconnect."

"Did Dr. House know you were coming over?"

"No," was the admission, followed by a sigh. "I was afraid that if he knew he would make certain that he wasn't here when I arrived."

The detectives exchanged a quick look. Zane said, "That sounds like more than just estrangement, Doctor. It smacks of animosity. Why would Dr. House feel animosity towards you?"

Glancing up with dull brown eyes, Wilson sighed. Why….why? "Because I told the truth," he answered bitterly. "I told him that he was in a toxic relationship that was slowly destroying him."

"This relationship was with Dr. Cuddy?"

Closing his eyes, the oncologist could see the cocky smile she'd cast him earlier that day. Superimposed over it was the ragged, red grin from ear to ear below her jaw.

"Yes," he whispered, opening his eyes again. "Since spring." _When the world began to spin out of control._ "She was controlling him, manipulating him. He was desperately in love with her…he would have done anything to please her and keep her from leaving him. She knew that and used that to force him to change."

"And you didn't like that," Zane added. It wasn't a question. Her voice was toneless, making it difficult to determine whether or not she was accusing him or simply clarifying.

"No," Wilson answered. "I didn't. He wasn't perfect—far from it—but he didn't need to be fixed or changed. She had taken it upon herself to reform him—to anyone who knew them it was apparent she was trying to break him. He is—was—my best friend. I couldn't keep my mouth shut anymore. We stopped speaking—or, rather, he stopped talking to me. I came over to try to make things right."

Brooks nodded in understanding; Zane wrote notes. Brown eyes left them, lifted to see past them at the corridor that ended with a bathroom and next to that, a bedroom, an abattoir. Nude lovers lay, posed, in each other's arms, blood-red sheets beneath and around them. Their clothes rested on the chair next to the bed, folded neatly. Death would have been quick. Single cuts from left ear to right. They would have bled out within minutes. Arterial spray on the headboard, pillows, and wall all testified to that.

"Did you know Dr. Cuddy would be here when you arrived?" Brooks asked.

Wilson's eyes moved quickly to him. They thought _he_ was responsible. His heart began to beat a little faster. "No," he answered, frowning. "I didn't do it!"

"Nobody said you did," Zane told him.

Wilson smirked angrily. "Not yet. Look, I arrived, the door was unlocked. That was strange. I walked in to see if everything was alright. In the past there were occasions when the pain in House's leg would get out of control. He'd pass out or throw up and be too weak to help himself. It became an unspoken rule that I could come in without being welcomed if I felt he was in danger." _No need to mention the Vicodin overdoses._

His voice was quavering as fresh pain began to ooze from the wound in his soul. It threatened to drown him.

Zane opened her mouth to make a comment but Brooks stayed her with a wave of his hand.

"Go on, Dr. Wilson. We're listening," he was assured by the male.

A tear ran down his cheek, completely ignored, as the oncologist reluctantly obeyed. "I didn't notice the blood at first. I called out House's name a couple of times. He didn't answer. I went into the kitchen and saw the blood paths then, on the floor. That's when the alarm bells went off. I ran toward the bathroom. The closer I got the more blood there was. The bathroom door was open and no one was in there. I automatically turned to the bedroom and was going through the door when someone punched me in the jaw—hard—and sent me flying back against the corridor wall. I hit my head and must have been stunned or knocked out. When I came to he was standing over me."

"You told Officer Regan that it was the intruder standing over you?" Brooks tried to confirm questioningly. Both pairs of police eyes were trained intently on him now.

Wilson nodded, swallowing hard. "He held a hunting knife and was staring down at me. At first I didn't recognize him. He had blood all over his face." He illustrated it by swirling his shaking hand over his own face. "After a moment or two I realized I knew him."

Lucas had stood over him, glassy eyed as if he were in some kind of trance. His arm with the hand holding the knife had hung loosely by his side. Certain that his best friend was dead, Wilson had waited for the stab or slice that would cause him to follow the diagnostician into oblivion. He remembered watching the blood droplets slowly fall from the tip of the blade to the floor, wanting his to be mingled with House's.

The private investigator had slowly crouched down in front of him, looking him over like one would a wounded animal. Wilson had flinched when the hand without the knife reached towards him, took his chin and turned his jaw to take a better look at where it was swelling thanks to a well-placed right hook. The oncologist hadn't been able to move, to push the hand away, to grab for the knife. He'd been too much in shock, too terrified.

"He broke your heart, too," Lucas had murmured quietly, or so quietly, his voice cutting into the near silence of the apartment. Wilson had almost missed it because the sound of his own panting and heartbeat pounding in his head was drowning it out.

"W-what?" he'd managed to croak and Lucas shook his head sadly at him.

"She came home, after. Covered in dust and sweat," the PI had said next. "She didn't say a work to either Rachel or me, just went to have a shower. When she came out she had changed. She took Rachel from me, set her down on the floor. Then she kissed me and looked me in the eyes and told me that she was breaking up with me. She stuck her engagement ring in my hand and told me that she was sorry, but that she was in love with _him_, not me. She bent down, kissed Rachel on the top of her head, and told me that the babysitter was on her way over and then started to leave. I asked her where she was going and she told me she was going to _him_. She broke my heart."

Wilson had realized what Lucas had been talking about, had seen the lost look in his eyes. In spite of his hatred for him, the doctor had almost pitied him. Almost. House's blood all over him had made it impossible.

"I know, you know," Lucas had continued. "How much you loved him, that is. How he strung you along, too, hiring me to find you only to jump into bed with her." The maniac had stood. "I won't hurt you. In return you can forget that you ever saw me. We'll be even."

Before Wilson had been able to tell him to go to hell Lucas had left. He'd been tempted to chase him, then remembered that his friend was bleeding in the next room, probably dead but there had been a possibility that he was still alive.

He was back in the present, now, drawn back by the sound of a stretcher being wheeled out of House's bedroom bearing a black body bag. He dumbly watched as it passed by him, toward the front door, and then was gone. The shell of what used to be the most brilliant, talented, beautiful man in the world was gone.

"Lucas Douglas," Brooks said, trying to draw the oncologist's attention back to the interview. Slowly Wilson redirected his eyes, nodded absently. He flicked a few more flakes of rust from his hands.

"For some reason he didn't kill me. Before I could do anything he was gone."

"Then what did you do?" Zane asked intensely. "Why didn't you try to go after him?"

"Because I thought I might be able to still save House if he wasn't already dead," he snapped at her angrily. "Catching him is _your_ job, not mine!"

"Alright, alright," Brooks interrupted calmly, trying to ease the tension building between the witness and his partner. "You're right, Doctor, and we _will_ catch him. Let's just calm down."

"Of course," Wilson returned angrily. "After all, what's done is done, right?"

Brooks was quiet for thirty seconds or so, waiting for the tension to ease before continuing.

"You said in your statement that you went into the room and discovered the victims. Up until then, did you know that Dr. Cuddy was there and had been attacked as well?"

Rubbing his face with his hands, leaving rusty smears where his tears had streamed down his cheeks, he then shook his head. There was the sound of the stretcher returning to House's apartment. It appeared again through the open door and was taken back into the bedroom.

"No, I didn't," was his answer. His headache was getting worse. "It was a bit of a surprise when I found the two of them…like that." Wilson cleared his throat. "I checked them both for breathing and a pulse, but they were both already…already gone. I faintly remember collapsing to the floor and crying. I don't know how long that lasted…I think I was shutting down. The next thing I remember I was talking to the emergency dispatcher on the phone. I don't remember what I said but…but in a little while the paramedics arrived and then the police. I remember one of the paramedics helping me to my feet and leading me out here. He checked me out, laid me down on the sofa and gave me oxygen. After that the police asked me what had happened and I told them. That's all I know."

"Dr. Wilson, you mentioned you hated the way Dr. Cuddy was treating Dr. House," Brooks said softly. "This is a delicate question, but I have to ask it…were you jealous of his relationship with her?"

It was a good question. The answer probably sounded incriminating except for the fact that House's death had been Wilson's worst nightmare for more years than he cared to admit. _The truth shall set you free. _Bullshit. It could get him unjustly arrested. It had cost him contact with his best friend during last month of the diagnostician's life.

"Yes, I was," he whispered. The tears really began to fall now but he didn't even notice them. "I…I loved House more than anyone else, ever. I never told him that I was in love with him. I never told anyone. I didn't want to lose my best friend. But I wasn't so jealous that I killed him and Cuddy. I've known that there could never be anything more between us for years. I wanted him to be happy…even if it was with her instead of me. I tried to encourage their relationship at first…I believed it could be good for him and at first he seemed happy. It wasn't until later that I saw what was really happening and even then I avoided saying anything for weeks…and I wish now that I had kept quiet. Maybe things would be different. Maybe he'd still be alive."

The stretcher emerged from the bedroom with its second burden, a smaller one bagged in black, and made its way to the coroner's van parked out front of the building. Wilson hadn't hated Cuddy. He truly hadn't. He would miss her, too. They had shared something in common—a misanthropic genius who managed to get himself under the skin and endear himself in the most unconventional ways; one thing was certain—once you came to love Gregory House—truly _love _him—you could never stop.

"Are we finished here?" he asked, knowing that he was just about at his limit. "I…would really like to go home now." _And wash my best friend's blood off of my skin, try to forget this day ever existed._

Brooks exhaled, nodded, and rose to his feet. Zane closed her notebook and followed her partner's lead. "I would ask you not to leave the state until we've completed this investigation. If you absolutely must, please contact the police department to let them know where you're going and for how long. If we have any further questions later on we'll be in contact."

Scowling now, Wilson replied hatefully, "Lucky me." He got up from the chair as the detectives walked away and looked around. The sofa where many times he'd slept, the kitchen where he'd cooked for his friend and had gotten stuck in the window trying to check on him, the TV they'd sat in front of, eating take-out, drinking beer, and spending some of the best times of his life. Then there was the piano standing in the corner; House's beloved baby grand. He stepped over to it, sat on the bench and caressed the white and black keys like they were the skin of his lover. Pressing a key, he listened to the note sound, resonate and then fade away; just like the life of the man who had played it countless times but never would again.

He rose from the bench and left the apartment for the last time, not able to look back. He kept walking down the stairs, out the main doors, down the walkway to the street past police, CSIs, yellow tape and the curious eyes of onlookers. As he passed the coroner's van to get to his car he allowed rusty fingers to caress its side.

At home at the loft he showered, changed, headed for his kitchen to grab a beer with the intention of drinking a lot of them and saw the blinking light on his answering machine. At first he chose to ignore it but the persistent flashing annoyed him enough to abort his trip to the kitchen and instead approach the phone. He pressed play, expecting a message from the hospital, or the police with more questions. It turned out to be neither. Three messages awaited him.

"Wilson," House's drunken voice spoke from the grave, "you were right. It's over. I'm telling her tonight. Come over after. I need to tell you something. I know you're angry but…but…I need you. You're the only one who has ever liked me for me—."

The answering machine beep cut him off. There was another message right after it. "Please don't hate me, Jimmy…Jimmy, I have to tell you…shit, shit, shit!...I love you. Fuck yeah, you heard right! Like Romeo and Juliet love except not Juliet but James. Jesus, you've turned me into a fucking s—!"

A final message completed his message. "You've made me a sop…or sap…or soppy sap. Now don't freak out or anything. Just come over to talk…please…I love you,Wilson and I miss you and I've had my head up my ass for too long and I'm tired of hiding how I feel. Oh yeah, bring beer."

A beep ended the recording and the light stopped flashing. Brown eyes stared at the machine for a full minute before Wilson played the messages again and then again. _I love you Wilson. I love you Wilson._

The answering machine hit the wall with a loud cracking and crunching sound before it hit the hardwood with a clatter. Flakes of paint and drywall fluttered down to rest upon the remains and the floor around it. Calmly Wilson walked into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge. He twisted the lid off, threw it into the trash can, and went to sit down at the island.

He didn't notice it until his second pull off of the bottle. It was still covered in dried blood which gleamed a little on the blade where the overhead lights reflected off of it. Under the knife was an old pizza restaurant take-out menu. A trembling left hand set the bottle down, pushed the hunting knife off of the piece of paper and then picked up the menu to look at it. The message hastily scrawled on it in pen was found on the back.

_W.,_

_Thought you might have a use for this._

_-L._

Lucas had been at he loft after leaving House's apartment. He dropped the paper, eyed the knife, and turned to look at the broken answering machine. Closing his eyes he saw House sitting behind his desk with his feet up, red coffee mug in hand. He was laughing—really laughing—at Wilson's joke. His incredible blues eyes sparkled, his entire face lit up. He was beautiful.

Then a superimposed slash, empty blank eyes, and graying skin appeared over the laughter.

Eyes flashing open, panting in horror, the oncologist knew he would never be able to remember his best friend again without the gore. Picking up the knife, he made his way through the silent, empty loft apartment to his bedroom. Fully-clothed he laid on his bed, staring at the rust that had once been blood coursing through House's and Cuddy's veins, pumped along by their beating hearts, seconds before arteries had been slashed and their lives had sprayed on the furniture and walls and soaked into the linens and mattress.

_I love you Wilson._

"I love you, too," he whispered quietly before pressing the blade just below and behind his right ear, pulling, transecting the carotid completely, and joining him.

_**~fin~**_

**A/N: I almost never write death fics—I don't like to read them—but this came to me in the middle of the night and I just had to put it down in print. I'm sorry if I upset anyone.**


End file.
